Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Huxley

TOUCHINGGLORYWASmore intoxicating than I’d ever dreamed it would be. I’d been trying to convince myself for the past six months or so that I was putting her on a pedestal, that I’d created a fantasy of what I thought she might be inside my mind. I’d tried to convince myself of that as a way to let her go, to push myself to find someone else to fill the void within me. But slipping my fingers inside her proved that all the fantasies I had of being with her were right. She was soft, warm, wet, responsive—more responsive than she knew.

It shocked me to find out that she’s never come before, though I suppose it makes sense knowing what her father did to her during her formative years. If it were me, I probably would have cut myself off from pleasure, too.

Shit.

The thought of it makes me want to vomit.

Glory had laid her head on my lap to rest, falling unusually quickly into a peaceful, still slumber. I’m trying to remain humble, though a part of me insists that I somehow gave her that peace by making her come. She’d been so frantic for relief, oddly desperate, and I understood it. A strange, primal energy surrounds this place—an energy that grows stronger the nearer he is—and it’s drawing out parts of me I’ve repressed for far too long.

Ambrose.

He returned sometime later, and the chain was moved from my ankle back to Glory’s. He let me out of the cage, but not before shackling my feet together with two ankle cuffs, attached by a chain linked between them.

We move through the forest now. Some of the snow has melted from the storm, so it’s not terribly difficult to tramp through as he leads me. The cold deepens as the sun sets, seeping into my bones. My muscles stiffen, especially my legs where I have to walk in short steps, my usual long strides hindered by the chain.

He leads me through the trees, creating a winding path as he weaves in and out and around the trunks. We trudge for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, before a small clearing opens up near the base of a massive maple tree, and he comes to a stop in front of it. With his black boots, dark jeans, black hoodie, and overcoat, he creates a dark silhouette—a shadow—across the wide base. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and he looks up at the branches.

I draw my eyes along his outline. With his back turned to me and his hood pulled up, he’s a faceless dark figure in a barren, cold forest. The image in front of me imprints itself in my mind—I instantly know that I’ll never forget this disturbing vision.

Beyond his silhouette, the texture of rugged bark climbs high up the tree trunk, drawing my eyes to the bare branches stretching across the sky. The limbs are eerie in the way they sway overhead, bare in the dead of winter, twigs along the boughs scraping across the orange and yellow lines painted by the setting sun.

“My parents are buried here,” he says.

I tear my eyes away from the branches to stare at his back. I don’t know whether he wants a response, and I don’t have one anyway, so I remain silent.

He turns to face me and leans back against the tree as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. His head tilts as he places the end between his lips, one hand coming up to block the tip from the chilly breeze as he sparks his lighter. He takes a slow drag before grasping his cigarette between two fingers and pulls it away, letting his hand fall to his side.

“How do you think they died?” he asks.

I shake my head, uninterested in playing this game, eager to get back to Glory.

“Any thoughts on why they’re buried here in an unmarked location in the forest?”

I shrug. “Am I supposed to care?”

He glances at the forest floor where remnants of dead, crunchy brown leaves peek through the snow from the tracks he kicked with his feet. He takes another drag of his cigarette and looks off into the distance.

“I didn’t build that cage you’re in. I’m not some sadistic creep who kidnaps teenagers lost in the forest. That cage has been there since I was three years old, and it was never meant to capture anyone.”

I feel a prick of interest in the way it tenses my muscles, and though I try to fight my words, they come out anyway. “Then what was it meant for?”

His dark eyes shift, though his head remains still, and they lock onto mine, holding me because a flicker of pain flashes behind them—something I only recognize because I’ve seen it before.

I’ve seen it in Glory’s eyes, too.

“It was meant for me.”

I breathe in deep, my chest rising with unexpected indignation. “Who made it?”

He steps forward, away from the tree, and plants his feet wide, as if straddling a divide. “Our dearly departed Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, the pieces of shit beneath my feet. Does it make you curious to know what happened to them? How they died? Why they’re buried here?”

Yes.

“Just say what you have to fucking say.”

“That cage was my bedroom from the day I could crawl. I almost have to wonder how I survived the newborn stage with parents like mine, but by some miracle, I did,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “Over the years, I got used to living in isolation, so much so that I avoid people as much as I can now.” He pulls his legs together and paces across the graves, taking another drag from his cigarette. “You and your sister—”

“Stepsister,” I feel the urgent need to clarify.

“Your stepsister. The two of you found yourself in my company, somewhere you don’t belong, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s reason enough to end your miserable lives and bury you both with my fucking parents.”

“Bullshit. If you had any urge to do that, you would’ve done it by now.”

“Would I? Now I’m curious, Huxley…Do you think I’m an impulsive man?”

“A lost and frozen nineteen-year-old girl shows up on your doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm looking for shelter, and your gut reaction is to wrestle her down, chain her up, and lock her in a cage. Yeah, I’d say you’re a little fucking impulsive in your decision making.”

He stops, turns his head, showing me the twist of his sneer. “I think that makes me an opportunist more than it makes me impulsive.”

“Cut the bullshit. There’s no opportunity in this for you.”

“You have no fucking clue how much opportunity is in this.”

“Then tell me.”

He turns to face me squarely and marches toward me, stopping so close that I flinch when he raises his cigarette to his lips, as the spark from the end flickers a breath away from my cheek. He exhales, blowing smoke out from the corner of his mouth, his dark eyes zeroed in on mine, brooding.

“Where is Glory’s father?”

“Why the fuck do you want to know?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me where I can find him.”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “You’re gonna have to be a little more convincing than that.”

He drops his cigarette, and my gaze follows it to the ground, watching his boot sneak out to stomp and twist. Because my head is turned, I don’t see it coming until it’s too late. His hand thrusts forward and lodges around my throat. He shoves me back against a tree trunk and the force knocks the wind from me, causing me to gasp for breath as his fingers squeeze. “Is this convincing enough for you?”

Fuck me.

There’s something sinister, yet undeniably sexual in the sizzle of his skin on mine…something I shouldn’t feel from the touch of a madman who holds me hostage. Maybe it’s the way he takes control that puts me out of my head, dampening the urgent rush of adrenaline that tells me to fight him, to come to my own rescue.

His touch starts a war inside my body, my need to be free—to rescue Glory—battling brutally with this odd, festering sensation that begs me to surrender. Ambrose is a threat—a clear and present danger—and my anxiety should be at peak levels with his palm latched around my throat…yet it’s not.

I almost feel as though I could slip away in his firm hold, let go of worry, give up, give in—

Give in to what?

No, I need to be fucking angry.

I need to fight him.

I have to save Glory.

“You’re not going to find her father,” I spit out the words.

Ambrose tilts his head. “Oh?”

“No one is ever going to find him.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let us go. You know who Glory is, don’t you?”

“Yes, I fucking know.”

“Her family has money, resources. They’re probably hunting us down right now. It’s only a matter of time until they find us, and then what will you do? You’ll get arrested, charged with kidnapping, sexual assault—”

His eyebrows snap down into a harsh, straight line. “I haven’t sexually assaulted anyone.”

“You had your fingers inside her. She told me you made her come. She didn’t want that from you. You took something from her. She’ll never get back the experience of her first orgasm.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s a fucking lie. She’s nineteen. That couldn’t have been her first—”

“Her father abused her for years! She’s never known anything other than assault and violence from men, and you just took another piece of her goddamn soul.”

His eyes widen gradually, his nearly black irises shifting as they take in every inch of my face, as if my expression holds a truth he doesn’t quite understand. Then, whatever softness his eyes just exposed snaps back to hardness, and I swallow against his pressing hand.

“But you said I made her come.”

I smirk. “And so did I. You only got it because you took it from her. Me? She gave it to me. She begged me for it.”

“When?”

“After you wrestled her back into that fucking cage.”

Now it’s his turn to smirk. “You mean after she pulled me down on top of her to kiss her? Don’t fool yourself. She wanted me. You were just the helping hand.”

“Fuck you. What the fuck do you want with us? What the fuck do you want with her father?”

“I don’t want anything to do with any of you,” he says, though his gaze subtly shifts. “It’s about what I have to do for myself.”

Suddenly, I’m curious.

I’m curious about the way his jaw ticks with tension.

I’m curious about the way his dark eyes shift.

I’m curious about the way his fingers twitch against my throat.

I’m curious about him.

“Tell me where he is,” he says.

I don’t reply.

He steps closer, his leg moving in between mine as he presses in. My pulse quickens. I urge my anger to build, to wash through my veins and cleanse me of the fury-filled desire that threatens to creep through me. I focus on the fury, let it quicken my breaths and surge through the beat of my heart, but fuck, when his shoulders sag, I can feel it wash over him, too. I can feel the vibration of his angry lust because it matches mine.

Fuck. It matches mine.

His grip tightens, and when he shifts to crush my body with his, I lose myself. I lose who I am, what I stand for. I lose my will to fight, my need to escape this. I need to escape him, but more urgently, I need to know him.

I swallow against his grip, and with a smoky black flash across his eyes, he moves quickly and his lips land on mine.

The world changes when he kisses me. It turns darker, colder, but also, it’s somehow filled with twisted magic—magic that makes me shudder and move, jerking my senses into awareness. He pinches my chin, holding my head firmly against the tree trunk as his tongue pushes past my teeth and begs to taste me.

I want to taste him, too, and I do…Fuck me, I do.

He tastes like sin, like a fucking curse. I’m so thrown off by his warmth against me that I don’t even care that he curses me, too.

We groan in unison, and the shared vibration sends a spike of frenetic energy whipping through the both of us. I know it’s not just me who feels it, because his hips rock forward and his cock is hard against mine.

I want that.

I want his hard cock just as much as I want Glory’s soaking wet pussy.

I let my hand float forward, slip between us, and grip him through his jeans.

Breaking our kiss, he mutters, “Fuck,” though he doesn’t move away.

The curse ignites aggression that sets my jaw and makes my teeth ache, aggression that makes me squeeze the heavy thickness between his legs with intention.

I should take advantage of him. I should snap his goddamn dick off for what he’s done to us. I should snap it and run, go back to free Glory, steal his truck, and be free from this nightmare for good.

But the nightmare fuels me, feeds me, makes me hungry for roughness and sex and consumption. Darkness falls around us with the setting sun and the bare branches of the trees creak and moan in the blistering cold breeze, whispering their intent to hide all of our filthiest, darkest secrets, whimpering with the need for us to release and unleash this madness.

Without warning, he steps back, tearing his fingers through his wavy, raven hair.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I can’t fucking…Just tell me where the fuck I can find her father.”

“You won’t find him because he’s dead.” I watch him as intensity makes my chest heave with heavy breaths, still filled with lust and anger. “He’s buried in the goddamn woods.”

He doesn’t look shocked or confused. There’s only a hint of curiosity in the slight tilt of his head. “What? How did he die? Who buried him?”

“Glory killed him, and I buried him.” I’ve lost control of myself, of my filters, and words tumble stupidly from my mouth. But the more I speak, the more I feel the burden lift from my shoulders. “He was trying to fuck her, and she put an end to it. And I’m damn proud of her. I would’ve done it myself when I found out how he hurt her, but she beat me to it. So, I cleaned up her goddamn mess because that’s what I do. I take care of her. I do whatever it takes to protect her because she’s mine. She’s always been mine.”

A silent beat passes…silent except for the sounds of the creaking forest.

Then, quietly, he says, “She’s not yours.” His tone isn’t commanding or harsh, it’s not defiant or combative. It’s matter-of-fact, so much so that he could almost make me believe him.

But I know he’s wrong.

She is mine. I claimed her with my fingers in her cunt, holding her against me as she came.

But he made her come first.

“What the fuck do you want from us?” I shout.

“You would never have done it yourself.”

“What?”

“If you’d found out what he was doing, you wouldn’t have killed him yourself. It shows your arrogance to claim that now since she handled the job herself. There’s no risk for you in saying that, and knowing you could never prove your claim, it’s easy to say.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I buried the damn body for her!”

“So what? You’re a cleaner. You’re not a mess maker. You’ll always be cleaning up after her. She can never be yours if that’s all that you are.”

“Fuck off.”

“Do you think that killers can ever really belong to someone?”

“She’s not a killer. She did what she had to do.”

He shakes his head at me, calm and cool as fuck. “I stabbed my mother in the heart while she was sleeping, but with my father…I took my time. I let him sit in the cage for three days before I ended his life with my axe. I split him like a fucking log. While you stand there and preach pride in your stepsister for murdering her abusive father, you’d condemn me in the same breath for doing the same to my own abusive parents, wouldn’t you?”

“If you left him in a cage, you’re talking pre-meditation—”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he scoffs. “You have no idea the hell I’ve lived. The hypocrisy of your soul tarnishes the pride you say you have in her, and for that reason alone, she’s not yours. She can’t be yours. She’s a killer…just like I am.”

Without another word, he turns and stalks off in the direction from which we came. I’m left stunned and speechless.

He’s wrong.

It’s not hypocrisy to judge him—what he did to his parents is entirely different.

But he says he was abused…like Glory.

It doesn’t matter. Let him think I’m a hypocrite for seeing the vileness within him. There is no vileness in Glory, not a touch of it. She’s perfect, angelic—

She’s a murderer.

It doesn’t matter!

I love her, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, to save her…to make her feel happiness again.

Silently, I turn and follow Ambrose, knowing that I can’t run from him, can’t escape him with the chains around my ankles. But even more importantly, I know I can’t leave Glory behind.

I won’t leave her alone with a cursed man.

I won’t leave her alone with him.